


Kintsugi

by distantstarlight



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Bad Coping Mechanism, Complicated Relationships, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Forgiveness, Harry is kind of a bitch, Healing, It Gets Better, John does a terrible thing, Loneliness, Love, M/M, Post series 4, Protective John, Regret, Remorse, Sad Sherlock, Separation, Sex, Unsafe Sexual Practice, a bit dubcon but persons involved aren't mad about it, making things better, so much sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-28 01:30:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15037742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/pseuds/distantstarlight
Summary: Sherlock Holmes becomes estranged from the man he had once considered his best friend after John lets him down horribly in public. It seems that the world's only consulting detective will be on his own once again...or will he?NOTES: Kintsugi is the Japanese art of repairing damaged crockery with gold or something precious, making an unusable item new again or replacing it as something improved.





	Kintsugi

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a meme (yes a meme) about Kintsugi and had a really big think about how much the concept was so very workable with Johnlock and decided to give it a bit of a try. It didn't end up quite the way I initially imagined but I hope everyone finds it acceptable.
> 
> d

****Sherlock Holmes knew what freefall felt like. He’d thrown himself off a building once, and for several breath-taking seconds, he flew. Even recalling the sensation made him feel nauseated. Impact had been no treat, and not all of the blood on the pavements had been faked. He also knew what it felt like to have something scar his heart, the hot bullet searing a dangerous kiss across its fluttering surface, barely missing, but enough to shock it into stopping for three terrible minutes. Sherlock was familiar with the scorching agony of red-hot brands, and gleaming knives. He understood the sear of a well-applied bull-whip and the sizzling tease of a blowtorch. Sherlock Holmes was now familiar with many sorts of pain, ranging from bruises and lacerations to catastrophic injuries that had nearly left him comatose and incapable of self-directed movement. This was new.

Sherlock and John had been arguing for days. A complex case involving human trafficking of minors had everyone existing at maximum levels of stress with the minimum amount of food and sleep. Nerves were beyond frayed, and time was slipping away from them. In the very last hour before the next largest shipment of innocent souls was to be sent on, Sherlock managed to ignore every detail of the trauma he unearthed and followed the clues like a possessed bloodhound. When he successfully led their team to the holding facility, he _continued_ to ignore the human suffering around him to focus on solving the greater puzzle.

It made the others mutter, especially since most of the victims were barely teens. The only fortunate part was that the children had been harvested for their purity, so no rude hands had yet to touch them. They were rescued instead, their captors rounded up, and _still_ Sherlock sifted for clues. When Sherlock found the database that matched the human cargo with a wish-list being assembled for paying clientele, he had clapped his hands with glee. _He had them!_ The others were horrified at his apparent lack of compassion. John was especially disturbed.

Later on, they returned to the Yard to process their prisoners. Sherlock was muttering over his laptop, seeking to make a connection he knew had to exist now that he had the information he didn’t previously have access to. He ignored everyone’s attempts to console one another regarding their shared experience, but Sherlock had no time for it, and his unwillingness had caused John, gentle caring protective John, to lose his temper and call Sherlock a heartless machine because he hadn’t stopped to spare a moment of kindness on a distraught child. It made Sherlock angry. _If he wasted time handing out hugs and mopping up tears, the other traffickers would get away! If they got away, they would continue their black works unhindered. Did no one understand this?_ Instead, Sherlock printed off the evidence Lestrade needed and handed it to the Detective Inspector. _This was the last straw. Sherlock had had enough. He was going to explain himself one final time and that was it._ He never got his chance. John was _so_ angry that he went ahead and did something unspeakable right in front of the entire complement of Lestrade’s division before Sherlock could utter a word to defend himself, “You really _are_ a _freak_ , Sherlock! FUCK!” John shouted. Dead silence followed.

Sherlock forgot what they’d been arguing about. He was so completely shocked that he stopped speaking. That’s when the laughter had begun, the taunting delight that started small but soon caught on like wildfire _. John had called him a freak right in front of everyone they worked with, and now Sherlock was being laughed at_. One horrified glance around was all it took to confirm the truth of it. Even Lestrade was trying not to grin, his shoulders shaking with repressed mirth. John’s anger was visibly fading, and a chagrined expression was spreading but it was far too late. _Sherlock should have seen it, should have somehow known how John really felt about him. The preceding days had been rife with clues of the soldier’s growing intolerance_.

He’d had enough. “I’m done,” Sherlock declared. He _was_ done. He felt humiliated and betrayed. He was _finished_ helping for free. He was _over_ trying to keep up with ever-changing social mores. _He was even done with John Hamish Watson_. Sherlock could physically feel the bonds of friendship that had once tied him to John wither and die between them, leaving him cold and anchorless. _It was time to go_.

Sherlock burned inside. He was so angry right then. He was furious and appalled. _Each time people had called him a freak, it had stung. Having_ John Watson _do what so many others had done was like a knife being plunged into his heart. Never once had John called him_ that _. After everything he’d done to keep John safe and alive, after all the scars he’d been given, how he’d given up everything he’d ever worked for, committed himself inside and out to saving those he cared about, after all the deprivation he’d survived… to have the man he’d considered his best friend deride him in front of their colleagues was unbearable_. Wild-eyed and in a growing state of shocked disconnect, Sherlock strode out from the Metropolitan Police Station and headed away. _Where_ wasn’t important, only putting distance between himself and John was important.

He walked. Sherlock didn’t think about anything at first. He was blank inside for a long time. _There was no go-to plan for this situation. Being friends with John was such a huge part of who he was, he couldn’t even imagine how he would function without the man. They were supposed to be two, together against the world. How he’d bled and suffered for John’s sake. Had any of it counted in his favour?_ He’d thought so but exactly what that entitled him to seemed to add up to precisely nothing except still being John’s friend, at the very least. _Even after the fiasco with being dead, Magnusson, and Mary, John had been on his side_.

Sherlock’s brain ran through a quick catalogue list of the physical trauma he’d suffered, all the emotional pain that both he and John had endured, and how all of it had been a testament to the strength of the bond he’d mistakenly thought was eternal. Today had been the final bit of pressure that had shattered them. _He could still feel it rawness of it, the bleeding ends of his feelings hidden beneath his skin but leaking out nonetheless._ _What could he do? He couldn’t deal with facing John. Something precious had broken and all the pieces were still too sharp to be handled without making it substantially worse. He felt severed and adrift as if gravity didn’t quite work for him any longer._ Sherlock tried to dismiss the amount of discomfort he’d experienced from being called a name that honestly, he’d been called a thousand times before. _Why did it make him feel so much worse because John had finally said it?_

Sherlock couldn’t stop picking at it and came no closer to being able to make sense of the ongoing sensation of having his heart figuratively break. There had been a trust between them, one of the foundations of their relationship, one where John _didn’t_ think Sherlock was a freak, where he was _the one_ _person_ in the entire world who even tried to understand why Sherlock was the way he was. He relied on John’s unwavering belief that Sherlock had a value beyond his usefulness, that he wasn’t just some self-indulgent twat with an unusually high IQ and a penchant for solving the knottiest of puzzles.

With that gone, all the rest fell apart. There was nothing to be done now. With the foundation gone, all the rest was as insubstantial as smoke. He couldn’t remain in a friendship with John. He couldn’t stay in the same residence as John, not when he knew what John thought of him, what he’d let everyone know as well. Sherlock could barely think. His gasps seemed to be coming from high in his chest as if he was no longer capable of taking a deep breath. He walked faster to calm himself. Hours after dark Sherlock sent a text to Mycroft with the only course of action he could tolerate, “ _Evict John Watson from 221 B Baker Street. It was my home first, and I’m tired - SH_ ”

“ _Trouble in paradise? - MH”_ Mycroft’s sly tone was another thing Sherlock didn’t currently have the internal resources to deflect so he went with directness.

“ _JW called me a freak in front of the entire Yard_. _They laughed.”_ Sherlock sent back. Telling his brother was nearly as mortifying as having it happen. There was no point in trying to hide it. Mycroft would find out anyway if he didn’t know already, and Mycroft would be one of the few to understand the scope of this single act, “ _I am walking away from all of it. I just want to go home and enjoy some privacy. I’ve earned that. Request zero contact with JW. -SH”_ Sherlock had risked his life and career helping his country. He was owed so much and hadn’t asked for anything more than what it had taken to make life easier for John. _For John_ , Sherlock had given everything, and the literal scars of those gifts would remain on his body for the rest of his days. _For his friend_ Sherlock had ensured that John’s assassin wife had been imprisoned, that John’s false marriage had been dissolved, that John’s room at 221 B Baker Street had been made available to him rent free, all because Sherlock cared for him so very much. _Well, clearly he’d wasted all his time, and sacrificed everything for nothing._ He’d given John Watson everything, so since it was over, Sherlock Holmes planned to take _everything_ back. Apologies were meaningless, he didn’t want one from John. Apologies wouldn’t undo what had happened. Reality didn’t work that way. _The government owed him huge, and even if it didn’t, his brother would still help him_.

Years ago, Mycroft had purchased 221 Baker Street from the pair of seniors that owned it, compensating Mrs Hudson and Mrs Turner handsomely from Sherlock’s portion of the family trust fund in exchange for the deed. Sherlock had technically been dead when he’d done it, and part of the terms was allowing both old ladies to have their suite of rooms for themselves for the remainder of their natural lives. Mrs Hudson was no longer Sherlock’s landlady though she still acted a great deal like his housekeeper, no matter how the scientist protested. Mycroft was the official manager of the entire building, so if Sherlock wanted to live by himself, then it was in his brother’s power to make it happen. Sherlock’s mobile cheeped as Mycroft sent a reply, “ _Team en-route. You will be contacted as soon as he is gone – MH”_

Sherlock went to his false front house at Lauriston Gardens and sat in the same spot John had sat in when Sherlock had exposed Mary for the fake she was. _Fat lot of good that had done him. John had scurried right back to her without a backward glance._ He thought for a while longer. For so many years he’d denied himself something he’d loved for ages, all for the sake of a conditional promise of inclusion in an honest profession, and to keep the respect of a man who in the end did not respect him in return. Kneeling, Sherlock prised up a single board and extracted a long narrow black lacquered box. Inside was everything he needed to make it through the next few days and a single hand-moulded tablet. Altering his personal chemistry was a dangerous crutch, but it was better than his alternative, which was simply dying. John was the uncaring possessor of a particular organ of Sherlock’s, one that he really could not do without. He’d have to jury rig a way, and _this_ was the only tool he had left. He swallowed the pastille and lay on the floor to stare at the ceiling, ignoring the chill in the air. It was warmer than how he felt inside.

Two hours later he received the all clear. John was removed from Baker Street, _forcibly_. The news didn’t disturb the chemical calm that the world’s only consulting detective was floating in. It was a concoction of his own making, one that he regretfully didn’t have much of but it was enough to last until he was ready for the next step. Mycroft would have sent in a whole team to extract every single thing that belonged to John, boxed it up neatly, and delivered all of it, doctor included, to some alternate address far from their old flat. Sighing with regret, but too cold inside to do more than that, Sherlock waited an appropriate length of time, and then went home. A grey-faced and red-eyed Mrs Hudson silently handed him a brand-new key. She pressed her wrinkled hands over his for a moment, and then let him wordlessly climb the seventeen steps alone. Whatever objections or protestations John had made while he was being tossed to the curb, Sherlock didn’t want to hear about, and his landlady understood.

The flat was awful. Already it felt cold and hollow, all the little missing details horribly noticeable. The stack of novels that John kept meaning to read. Gone. His side of the desk. Empty. All the magazines. Gone. Their pin-board with bills, their events calendar, and notes to one another. Blank. The kitchen. Completely empty except for experiments, and whatever ancient dishes Mrs Hudson had first handed over. The loo. Gutted. There was one thin towel left, and the bog roll. John’s med-kit was gone. Even when he’d been a married man, that case had remained, used sparingly during cases. He was glad it was gone and silently thanked the movers for their thoroughness. Sherlock made a note to have it replaced but _later_. Instead, he threw the deadbolt on the door and tugged all the curtains tightly closed. Once he was securely locked away, Sherlock made himself a cup of tea, changed into his most comfortable pyjamas, settled himself in his bedroom, and got high.

The thing about addiction was that your skills at it never seemed to lessen. _The bite of the needle, the euphoria, the drifting, all of it were steps in a dance that he had practised for years._ _There was no longer a reason to hold back. He’d never do the Work again and John was gone_. Even if Mycroft cut off his funds it didn’t matter. When John went through with his engagement to Mary Morstan, Sherlock had begun hoarding drugs, and making new connections, secreting away stashes in his many bolt-holes and hiding places all over the city. He could indulge at will if he so chose.

It was for Mrs Hudson’s sake that he only did enough every evening to make the empty hours of night pass painlessly. He didn’t want to ruin things for her by inconveniently dying in her home. It would make her sad, and it would make the flat, already run down and mouldy, nigh un-rentable, not that Mycroft likely would. _Still_. Mrs Hudson had done nothing but love and support him, so for her sake Sherlock kept his old habit tightly reigned, indulging nightly right after she’d had her herbal soothers, _but only once_ , no matter how tempted he was to do more.

She didn’t mention John, not ever, even though Sherlock knew the doctor had attempted to come by several times, even shouting up from the street, trying to gain admittance. Mrs Hudson refused and went so far as to call Mycroft to have John shooed professionally away. After he’d been removed, Mrs Hudson came upstairs and silently gave Sherlock a long and tight hug that lasted for nearly seven minutes, and wordlessly provided a sharps container for his used needles, considerately leaving it beneath the kitchen sink, available but discreetly hidden. He let her. Mrs Hudson _understood_ , he knew she did, and she let him do what he had every intention of continuing doing, and in exchange, he remained present and accounted for. At least they each got to spend the dark hours of the night in a restful stupor. Daylight hours trickled painfully away for both of them.

Lestrade came by several times but Sherlock refused to see him. Mrs Hudson sternly sent the DI away, telling him to come back with legitimate warrants if he needed to search the place, but to otherwise never show his face at her door again. Mrs Hudson was fiercely protective and wasn’t about to tolerate the presence of anyone who had hurt her boy so grievously. Sherlock shut down public access to his website, _The Science of Deduction_. There wasn’t any point in making it available. Only the most rabid of John’s fans ever used it. He deactivated all his public accounts as well, cleansing the internet of his presence as thoroughly as he could. While he was at it, he hacked his way into John’s blog and purged it of every single entry, deleting their entire online history. He knew John kept copies on his laptop, even his reader’s comments were stored. _That wasn’t the point. John no longer had permission to write about Sherlock’s work. It was over between them, the rights of their once deep friendship rescinded in all degrees_. Sherlock had to get high right afterwards. Sherlock blocked any contacts who might reach him on John’s behalf, before going the extra distance and getting himself a new mobile, with an entirely new number. Now only Mrs Hudson and Mycroft could reach him. It was just easier.

Sherlock had a great deal of money put away, even aside from the generous Trust, enough to retire on if he so chose, and he chose. He put out the word that he was no longer in business, and spent his days doing experiments. He still had a lot of questions about things and was interested in forensic sciences as much as he ever was, but the _Work_ was ruined for him now. Even if he could tolerate investigating without John, he would never help with the Yard again, and private cases were too much bother to attempt solo. _He’d write a textbook instead, it might take his entire life to complete but that was all right. It would be very involving and just what he needed_.

One long miserable month passed. Sherlock still hadn’t worked up the courage to look at John’s empty room, nor to even use their old sugar bowl. He put his sugar in a mug, a new one. The packers had been thorough and John had owned most of the usable crockery. Sherlock kept to a strict daily routine, not neglecting his rest nor his nutrition, following a chart that tracked the minimum number of nutritious calories that his transport required. He knew he was just keeping himself occupied until evening when he could make everything disappear with a cautiously administered single dose of the 7% solution to all his problems. Carefully, Sherlock stopped paying attention to the new and unmarked calendar hanging in lonely fashion on the empty board.

He lost himself in his research to the degree that one day he needed supplies. He had four different experiments going and he needed Petri dishes, slides, and other consumables. His once ample collection had eroded via attrition, and he didn’t have nearly enough. It was time to go pick up another stash of narcotics anyway, so Sherlock dressed warmly and left 221 B Baker Street for a rare outdoor excursion. He bumped into someone he didn’t expect. Sally Donovan was in the supply store, speaking to the manager about shipping requirements for restricted compounds. Sherlock tried to ignore her, but she walked right over and without any preamble, she said, “He’s a drunken wreck without you, Sherlock. John’s been in the clink a dozen times, no one’s got the heart to press charges. He’s killing himself with the bottle.”

“And,” he asked coldly, “It’s been made quite clear that any offer of assistance on my part is not only unwanted but cause to be considered socially stigmatic. As you well know, I have a severely deficient grasp of social mores and therefore restrict myself to the Hippocratic ethos of “help or at least do no harm.” Since I’m _of no help_ , keeping my path separate from everyone I once knew seems the best way to continue with the _no harm_ bit of my established morality matrix. Good day, Detective Donovan.”

Donovan blinked and had the good grace to look properly chastened. She, like Lestrade, had watched Sherlock climb out of his addiction for the sake of the work, and knew very well why he’d turned his back on all of it. “You’ve every right to be mad at us, Sherlock, and I’m sorry for my part, I really am, but this separation isn’t good for either of you. John’s drinking every single day. You look like crap. He lost his job. You’re not taking cases any longer. I know you’ve got money to live on but I’m pretty sure John’s sold all his possessions. I think he’s living at his sister’s _if_ she hasn’t tossed him to the streets because he won’t stop raising his wrist.”

Sherlock looked at her, his gaze hard and unforgiving. _Her implied apology was weak, and as worthless as any words, just air that had been expelled and wasted_. “Well, the Watsons have a predilection for the drink. Good-day, Detective Donovan.” He couldn’t allow himself to feel anything for John Watson, not anymore, but telling himself that didn’t take away the stony feeling inside his gut. His world was wrong and it might never be right again.

Sherlock tried to push past her, but she caught his arm, “It’s _not_ a good day, Sherlock Holmes. It’s one of the worst days. Never mind John, someone is killing off homeless people, kids mostly. Homemade drugs are being handed out for free. We found a whole group of them dead in their shelter. You used to care about your network, do you still?”

Sherlock felt a twinge of something. _He did care about his network but had neglected them for weeks. All the souls in it had helped him for a pittance, too proud to take much so he had given frequently instead_. “I’ll look into it.” He owed his network a great deal, for many reasons.

Donovan stood there still, “Forgive him, Sherlock. Work it out somehow. It’s worth it.” She looked sincere but there was nothing he wanted less than to agree with her about anything.

“How do you know, Sally Donovan? I’d have to say that I’ve put a rather large amount of effort into my ill-fated friendship with Doctor Watson and have earned exactly nothing for it. _Good day_ , detective.” Supplies forgotten, Sherlock stormed out of the store and took to the streets again. He checked with several old contacts and got himself going again. He wasn’t hiding from his network so his new number being spread from key person to key person until he’d firmly established contact with the entire web. _Task complete_. It was horrible. Sherlock knew he’d be looking into everything all on his own. He couldn’t bear the idea of working with anyone, not even if it helped. There was too much risk, and he was still too raw about John to be able to even contemplate the concept of a new partner. Just doing the Work at all was going to be unsettling.

Sherlock couldn’t tolerate the idea of going back to the flat. Instead, he went right for one of his old hiding places, pulled out a spare kit, and administered his solution as soon as he could. In the wee hours of the morning he stumbled home, his transport on autopilot, his mind a blank, his heart a hollow shell. Mrs Hudson let him in, and with soft words got him back upstairs and into bed. She petted his curls and kissed his temple before leaving him to sleep himself out.

Sherlock still had to go out for Petri dishes the next day, so, hungover and miserable, he made his way to another supplier. He was just leaving the store when Sherlock was taken completely by surprise when a short, sandy-haired, and sturdy woman strode up to him, cocked her fist, and let fly with a blow that rocked him back several steps, “Excuse me!” he shouted, “What the devil is wrong with you?” She’d gotten him right at the top of his jaw. His ear was ringing.

“Sherlock _fucking_ Holmes, _heartless bastard!_ Glad to meet you at last!” A second heavy punch took him in his stomach, and Sherlock bent in two, struggling not to vomit, his throat filling as he swallowed convulsively, “Arsehole!” she shouted. A savage open-hand slap made him lose the bag he was carrying, and his glassware shattered on the sidewalk.

“ _Harry!”_ A far away but familiar voice cut through the discomfort. Wiping the blood-stained saliva from the corner of his mouth, Sherlock managed to look up in time to see John limping toward them from far down the street, his cane held shakily in his hand. Sherlock was stunned. He wasn’t prepared to see John. The doctor looked awful. He was sunken-cheeked and had dark bags under his eyes. His hair was untrimmed and roughly combed back, likely with nothing more than his fingers. Sherlock would have observed more, but the woman, obviously John’s sister, managed to draw back for one more forceful blow, this one landing right on Sherlock’s right eye, a follow-up punch with her other hand landing against his belly a second time. The power behind it was breathtaking, and now he couldn’t stop himself, not that he tried. Sherlock threw up right there in the street, “Harry, what’s gotten into you? What have you done?” John was still shouting. He wasn’t close enough to be heard otherwise.

“He deserves it, Johnny! He’s a fucking selfish prick, and you’re too good for him.” John was nearly there but not quickly enough to stop his sister from kicking Sherlock’s face, since he was conveniently bent over. With a grunt, Sherlock collapsed on the pavements, his nose bleeding, and his throat burning from accidentally re-swallowing that which he’d tried to expel. He also managed to land one hand directly over the broken Petri dishes, gashing his palm several times. He stared at his own blood in shock, “You really are a fucking _freak_ ,” screeched Harry. Sherlock gagged one more time as the much-hated name was hurled at him, his entire body tensing into a tight curl.

Sherlock had to force himself to his feet. John was nearly there, his hand was reaching out to help him, but Sherlock managed to flinch aside before they made contact, splattering his blood on John’s trouser leg by accident. John didn’t seem to notice, his focus was on Sherlock’s face, and the doctor looked so sad, so upset, but his voice was gentle, pleading, “Sherlock, don’t go. Please. Don’t leave.” John’s face was painted with concern and regret, but Sherlock was in too much pain to care. “ _Harry_ , what did you do?” Despite the angry frustration in John’s voice, Sherlock knew he wasn’t prepared to deal with anything right then. His head was still throbbing from earlier, and now he was sore all over, his stomach churning dangerously. He was going to be ill again, and he needed to bolt. Using his long legs to good advantage, Sherlock turned and fled, not caring that Mycroft most certainly had witnessed the humiliating beat-down via CCTV. _He’d just been bested by a woman over a foot shorter than he was in broad daylight right there in the street._ He hadn’t lifted a finger to defend himself. Sherlock had to find another alley, so he could throw up a second time, and blow his nose to temporarily clear it.

As soon as he got home, Sherlock dosed himself heavily, not pausing to clean himself off, nor change into something more comfortable than a day-old suit stained with blood, snot, and sick. His nose had clotted, and he had brilliant bruises blooming all over the place. Thanks to the drugs, it didn’t trouble him a jot. The cuts on his hand bled freely, it was of no note. Sherlock didn’t care that the aged area carpet was ruined with a growing puddle of it. He was so out of it that he didn’t hear the street-door being knocked upon or hear John’s anxious voice shouting up at him. He didn’t hear Mrs Hudson’s words float angrily through the air, and he didn’t hear the police sirens wailing as she called in an intruder, nor did he notice the ambulance that came soon after to carry him away to a hospital, a short man limping by his side, calling out his blood-type and allergies.

Sherlock woke in hospital. He was covered with a crocheted blanket, featuring a heavy field of brilliantly-coloured flowers that lay on top of the standard issue sheets of his cot. He recognized Mrs Hudson’s work and was comforted by it. She knew he liked to be weighed down when he slept, her blanket felt like it weighed a metric tonne. He was hooked up to an IV and he felt floaty. He knew he was on something to take the pain away, and that he was likely recovering from an overdose. With a sigh, he knew his hiatus was over, and that he’d once again be required to walk the difficult road to recovery from his fall back into addiction. _It didn’t matter. The drugs hadn’t helped him anyway. He was still a sorry lonely sod who couldn’t do anything right_.

“Sherlock.” It hurt the detective to turn his head so fast, and he ended up groaning with pain as he set eyes on John. The doctor flinched, his expression one of devastated hurt, “I’m sorry, I’ll leave. I just needed…” John stopped, swallowed hard, and continued, “I needed to see you wake up, that’s all. I know I’m intruding. I’m sorry. I’ll just… I’m going to go.”

John was still using his crutch and almost fell over when Donovan stepped into the room. “Watson?” She looked back and forth between them, “Glad you worked things out.” She didn’t pause and simply turned to speak to Sherlock, “We got the call, and I’ve been sent ‘round to take your statement. Care to tell us what happened?”

Sherlock shook his head. He didn’t want to say a word. Instead, he turned his face to the wall and tried to ignore both of them. John cleared his throat, “My sister, well, she’s a bit of a hot-head, and she didn’t understand what happened between us correctly, so she might have…well...”

John was a terrible liar and Sherlock couldn’t bear it, “Shut up. Stop speaking. Leave. Now. Both of you.” John’s mouth snapped audibly shut. Donovan wasn’t so easily compelled, “Listen, we’ve got you for drugs, and for public indecency, and we’re going to throw in a disorderly as well because you were clearly fighting. You know what that means?” Donovan was just doing her job, Sherlock understood the facts only too clearly, “Your past records don’t leave us many choices, I’m sorry, Sherlock, really I am.”

“Just do it.” He had no fight left in him. He’d already decided to quit using drugs to try and escape. _Where_ he got clean didn’t matter. At least he’d be away from everyone he knew, “I don’t care anymore.”

John looked back and forth between them, his face filled with suspicion before he asked, “What are you going to do, Sally?” _Sally_. Of course, John called her _Sally_. He called Lestrade _Greg_ and Anderson _Philip. He was just best chums with them, wasn’t he, the laughing lot of them!_ Bitterly, Sherlock lay there and listened, “Don’t tell me you’re going to try and have him sectioned?”

“It’s for his own good. With his history…” Donovan got no further.

“He is not _using_ drugs! He was doing research! Look, you saw all the equipment on the sidewalk. _That’s_ why he was there! He’s sick right now, he’s _not_ high. He hasn’t been eating, don’t tell me he has, look at him, he’s been starving himself again. My sister got mad, took some incredibly cheap shots when he couldn’t defend himself and _that’s_ how he got hurt. He wasn’t fighting at all! _You’re not taking him away! He has to go back to Baker Street until he’s well again_!” John was so passionate in his exclamation that even Sherlock was tempted to believe him even though he really had been high enough, enough to nearly die from it.

“Watson, I can’t just…” Once again Donovan was cut off.

John went from _entreating_ to _threatening_ in a heartbeat, his voice soft but certain, “If you make it difficult for me to take Sherlock back home _today_ , I will have no choice but to use that bit of video I took at the celebration quiz night at the pub. You remember that one, Sally? You begged me to delete it, but I didn’t. I have a blog, and I’m not afraid to throw you right under the bus if that’s what you make me do.” _John’s fans were rabid. They attached themselves to any ridiculous thing he posted, shared it thousands of times, and practically worshipped the literary ground he figuratively walked on. It was sickening. On the other hand, Donovan was now backing away, her hands up in surrender_. John paced after her, his shoulders bowed forward as he kept her gaze locked to his, “You know I’d do it. That clip would be around the world before you could get an order to have my blog shut down. The _entire_ world, Donovan.”

Whatever it was that John had on her made her cease protesting instantly. Instead, she tried to brazen her way forward, “Clean him up, Watson. He doesn’t have any chances left. If he loses his competency, he’s going to end up institutionalized.”

“Get out.” John was furious, “Don’t threaten us, don’t even try.” He glared until Donovan finally backed out of the room and left them alone. John deflated the second she was out of sight, “I’m so sorry, Sherlock. This entire mess is completely my fault. I ruined _everything_  and I don’t know how to make it right again. You did not deserve what I did to you. I don’t have any excuses, I don’t deserve your forgiveness so I’m not even going to ask. I’m absolute trash. All I want is a chance to help you get better. I _know_ you can do it, but you don’t have to do it alone. I know you’re angry, and you have every right to want me as far from you as humanly possible. I don’t blame you a bit, but I _am_ a doctor, and I _can_ help you with the physical problems you’re going to have, _and_ I can get you meds, and everything you’ll need, and you wouldn’t need to worry about any sort of authority finding out. I’ll take care of everything, I’ll make it as easy for you as I can, just please, let me help you get better. I’ll leave right after. You won’t have to ask. Just, get healthy, and …”

“Alright.” Sherlock’s throat was raspy. He cleared it because John was staring at him. John was correct on all points. He needed _medical_ supervision while he cleaned up, and no matter how he felt personally about John, his reputation as a doctor was exemplary. Sherlock already knew from personal experience how adept John truly was, especially in an emergency situation. Options were limited, and no choice was particularly wonderful. It was either home to Baker Street with John and a lot of painful awkwardness, _or_ a professional private clinic that Mycroft chose with even more painful awkwardness as well as a high chance of having to put up with a lot of well-intentioned and sincere conversations about _lightness of being_ and _wellness_ , “Take me home.”

Mycroft sent a car and gifted them with his absence. John wrote all the necessary scripts for Sherlock’s recovery and found a chemist who filled them. The driver had presented John with a credit card in Mycroft’s name, and with that, the doctor purchased all the items necessary. With the same card, John shopped for groceries and necessities, filling the capacious car-boot to the top with everything they could possibly need.

The driver had to assist bringing Sherlock inside and fell under the sharp command of Mrs Hudson when it came to the relocation of the shopping. It was confusing to the man. It was obvious he wasn’t sure who had been in the military, John, Mrs Hudson, or both. While they filled the kitchen and pantry exactly the way she wanted it, John got Sherlock sorted out for a long hot shower. Once he was clean, John prepared Sherlock his favourite guilty pleasure, tinned soup, poured it in a large mug so he could drink it along with a large hot cup of tea, and set out some pain medication. By then, Sherlock needed it.

They settled in for the duration. Detox had never been a fun process, but John made it tolerable. They still barely spoke, but they didn’t need to. John knew what Sherlock needed if it was a sip of water, or to have his brow mopped dry, or to have the sick wiped away. John had educated himself long ago on the steps required for this _particular_ problem. He hadn’t made a fuss about it, he’d just gone ahead and done it. Sherlock felt a twinge of something he couldn’t define. John made no accusation, gave no hint of disappointment. He was understanding and careful, anticipating each stage of recovery, and easing Sherlock along as gently as he could. They knew each other well, and in a crisis, John could always be counted on, he was thorough, steadfast, watchful, and professional.

Doctor Watson was _completely_ professional. He distributed his care unstintingly, but minus even a hint of familiarity. John could have been one of the faceless interns that had tended Sherlock in the past. The ever-changing rota of the hospital had held no interest to the suffering detective, but he’d had no cause for complaint. If under the strictest of medical reviews, John would have passed with flying colours, and entrusted to handle clients of the highest status.

Sherlock found he hated it. He hated having John there whenever he felt ill or when the doctor provided exactly the tablets he needed exactly when he needed them. He despised the foods that John prepared for him to eat, always things he found tolerable, and knowing he needed sustenance, managed to consume. He loathed finding his bed neatly remade after he managed to have a brief shower, and it infuriated him to discover his clothes neatly laundered and returned to their proper locations, ready for his use whenever he might require it. Even his sock-index was spot on. John was flawless. There was no need to say a word about his care, and they spoke of nothing else. Their days often went by without their mutual silence broken, though John made sure Sherlock’s laptop was always charged, and that his mobile was ready at any given moment, so he could at least read online and catch up with research papers he’d been meaning to get to.

John seemed to spend his personal time getting ready for Sherlock’s next round of ailments, and slept upstairs when he slept at all. He wore the same three outfits repeatedly, and Sherlock realized John had nothing else to put on. It disturbed him to realize he hadn’t even noticed until now. He wasn’t even certain how long John had been staying with him. _Days? Weeks?_ He felt adrift, even after he looked at the date on the laptop. It meant nothing to him since he had no idea when he’d had his arse handed to him by Harry. _His bruises had healed and faded away, so it must have been a while_. Sherlock speculated further. Donovan said John had sold all his things. _Was that true? What did he have of value apart from his laptop and mobile?_ Sherlock saw neither item, and he felt cold inside. _What about John’s stories? Where were they, if not on his laptop? They weren’t online anymore._ Sherlock had gotten rid of them. What about his mobile? All their texts and messages? What happened to all of it? Sherlock knew his mobile had rung several times, but he couldn’t recall clearly if he’d heard anyone try to call John.

“Lend me your phone.” He demanded, his voice hoarse with disuse. He kept his eyes directly on John’s face, but the doctor did not look at him. The smaller man had jumped at the unexpected conversation, and a hint of colour splashed John’s cheek, but the rest of his face paled, “I need to send a text and mine is occupied.”

John began to lay out Sherlock’s light lunch, “I left it for Harry to use. Her battery won’t recharge.” Sherlock scrutinized him, examining the doctor’s face closely. _John wasn’t exactly lying but he also wasn’t telling the truth. Harry was very probably using John’s mobile, but only because she’d gotten it off of her brother entirely_.

“Your laptop then, an email will do, and my laptop is going through its maintenance cycle.” Sherlock kept watching John, but the doctor’s face remained the same, “John?”

“I didn’t bring it. I didn’t need it. Harry has it.” Now John _was_ lying. _Harry didn’t have his laptop. He’d sold it._

“Where is it, John? I kept the backup for my research on there, and I want it.” Sherlock had. He hadn’t thought about that until now.

John’s eyes closed for a second, “I…I…may have left it at Sarah’s.” This was more convincing, “I’d forgotten. She doesn’t have one and she needed…”

“Stop.” Sherlock ordered, “Never mind.” John was clearly mortified and didn’t want to tell Sherlock that he’d sold his laptop to his ex-girlfriend, or why he needed money so badly that he was willing to do so. Still, Sherlock couldn’t let his research float about the world unclaimed, so he used his perfectly functional mobile to send a detailed request to Mycroft. He could practically hear and see the sigh his brother heaved as he sent back a response, _“Later this afternoon - MH”_

Three hours later, one of Mycroft’s assistants showed up with John’s old laptop, a new mobile, and a receipt from his brother for the purchases. Sherlock accepted all of it without a word. When he opened the laptop, he found a handwritten note from Sarah inside.

_Sherlock, I hope you know what you’re doing. No matter what John might have said or done that made you so very angry, he deserves to be treated with respect. Thanks to you he’s unemployed and homeless, so while I don’t know what happened between the two of you, I urge you to sort the matter out before you really do lose John forever. He’s so sorry, and he wants to make it up to you, but he doesn’t know how. He has not said why you both fell apart but whatever happened has hurt him deeply and what appears to be a very large amount of regret. He worries for you, constantly. John cares so much for you, more than he cares for anyone else. Please, take this into consideration. - SS_

Sherlock didn’t know if he was supposed to respond. The note made him feel strange, like he’d made a terrible error, but he couldn’t calculate how that might have happened. He went over everything in his head, but it didn’t add up _. He was missing something, and it was probably something John would understand and see, but he couldn’t ask John, not now_. Instead, he distracted himself with work, copying his research onto his portable hard-drive. He then paused, then copied all of John’s stories as well before he gave the laptop back, “Everything is taken care of,” was all he said. John’s face was a mess of emotions. He looked grateful, humiliated, and downcast, all at the same time. “I’ve spent years assembling that data, it’s worth everything.” Sherlock saw his assurance only made John feel worse, but he didn’t know what else to say. All he could do was hope John didn’t feel compelled to sell it again.

Sherlock received several texts while he recovered, messages from his contacts on the street. The situation was dire. Several teens had disappeared from their normal haunts. A quick check with Molly and her contacts showed that at least half of the missing had ended up in the morgue. Molly followed up on the blood-work and confirmed that all of them had died due to contaminated recreational street-drugs. _Donovan was right. Someone was killing street people._ Sherlock felt cold inside, and without realizing what he was doing, spelled it all out for John who sat there with a look of astonishment on his face, “Do you want me to go check anything out?” offered the doctor instantly, “I can see if I can treat some of the ones who haven’t made it to hospital, or at least, get them there if they’re ailing.”

Sherlock blinked in surprise at the offer. He hadn’t considered that John might still want to help, and it still felt very strange attempting to do the work without him. He thought for a moment but there really wasn’t much to think about. His hurt feelings and pride simply did not add up to the value of the lives being lost, “Wiggins is still at the same spot, begin there. I haven’t heard back from him today, so perhaps…”

“I’ve got the mobile,” John assured him, “And you won’t need your next round for four more hours.” Sherlock wasn’t allowed to medicate himself, one of the stricter rules he’d been made to live by in exchange for being released under only John’s supervision. “Mrs Hudson can help if we need to call her up.” _Another patient soul_. Mrs Hudson hadn’t said a word to John or Sherlock about their new lives, simply cleaning around them as if both men were just statues that she chattered at and left platefuls of tiny biscuits out for. Suddenly Sherlock had an impression that he and John were very like Mrs Hudson’s pets. Some people kept strange or exotic animals, but she maintained a pair of highly dangerous and unstable madmen, never afraid that they’d do her a bit of harm personally, and simply mothering them ceaselessly whenever they were home long enough. It was a bit disconcerting to think about, and he couldn’t quite rid his mind palace of the concept.

With John’s help, things progressed quickly. The doctor had found Wiggins in his den, sick near to death but clutching a small baggie in his hand. He gave it to John before the ambulance took him away, and the contents therein were carefully examined by Sherlock. Lestrade was advised to seek out a pleasant-faced woman with connections to a volunteer outreach program. She turned out to be the mother of a young man who had lived a life filled with drugs and alcohol and had ended up on the streets where he’d perished. In her mind, those that also lived on the streets were somehow culpable for his death, ignoring the fact that the life _she’d_ given her son was what had driven him to the streets to begin with. Her misplaced anger and twisted guilt had enabled her to poison total strangers without remorse. John was with Greg when they arrested her right in front of her church, her purse filled with her organization’s pamphlets as well as over a dozen small baggies filled with a poisonous powder she had cooked up herself in her kitchen.

That night Sherlock lay in his bed and listened to John groan his way through a nightmare. The soldier was always negatively affected by death, more so when he felt guilt. John always felt he should have done more or should have tried harder whenever they failed to save someone. Even though most of the street people who had died had done so even before they’d known of the case, John would blame himself for their loss. The very next morning Sherlock simply said, “It wasn’t your fault John. You had nothing to do with that woman’s choices.” He’d been conflicted about whether he should say anything at all, but decided facts were facts, and John needed to know them.

John looked bitterly at the sink which was blamelessly filling with hot soapy water for the dishes. “Not her, no, but this case would have never gone on as long if you’d been doing the work to begin with. _I’m_ the one that made you stop. It’s _my_ fault that this case, and who knows how many other cases, have gone on to bad ends. How many people have died while you haven’t worked, Sherlock? How many people have been lost, or things of value used against someone, or just…just…” John’s shoulders bowed, and he stood hunched over the sink, obscuring his face from Sherlock, “ _I_ did that. _I_ took you from everyone. _I_ said…”

“I know what you said.” White hot feelings were welling up and he couldn’t tell if they were good or bad. Sherlock didn’t know how to react. He thought they had managed to move past this, and if not past it, at least away from it. Anxiety swelled up, mixed with a trace of anger, fear, and return of humiliation. “There’s no need to repeat it. I know what you think of me, what _everyone_ thinks of me.” _It was too much again. It was overwhelmingly too much_. Sherlock shut his ears to John’s next words, walking swiftly away. He took his coat in his hand and fled down the stairs before anything John said made it through the temporary barrier he’d erected. _He’d never be able to deal with hearing John be frank with him about his deficiencies. He knew he wasn’t a good person. No one needed to explain that he was too rude, or too blunt, or too socially dysfunctional. No one needed to reiterate his many faults_.

Sherlock wandered for a long time again, his brain buzzing with thoughts and feelings he couldn’t sort out. He knew Mycroft had someone watching him via CCTV, and he didn’t bother hiding. At least it was proof he wasn’t trying to purchase narcotics, he was just walking and thinking. Sherlock didn’t know how to feel about John, or how to react to John’s perceptions. Instead of another hit, easily obtainable, Sherlock found a grotty and ill-lit pub that served horrid coffee and nursed a cup of it while he struggled to process the day. _He was well enough now, surely John could move out again?_ It was difficult living with the soldier but thinking of living without him again, and without drugs, made Sherlock feel that strange blankness inside once more. His veins burned with need, but he was strong enough once more to resist. He had to admit it to himself. He missed John, the old John, _his_ John. _This John was completely professional and had performed his duties with exemplary skill, but Sherlock craved the old way when John would just argue with him and make him take his medicine. They’d understood each other perfectly, their comfortable domesticity a soothing balm that he’d once enjoyed every single day._ It made Sherlock miss their previous closeness even more and made him want to return to the drugs he was using so recently. There was no point wandering about. His thoughts weren’t any less muddled, so with a sigh, Sherlock returned to Baker Street.

John looked awful. Sherlock’s gaze darted up and down as he took in all of John’s tells. _His absence had upset and stressed the soldier, his left shoulder was pulled up with tension. His cuffs were damp. John had washed up but had been too distracted to remember to roll up his sleeves before doing so. John’s mouth was tightly set. He was worried but also unsure if he should express that fact_. John was jittery and anxious, and even as Sherlock stood there, it seemed that John was doing everything he could to keep himself from coming over and checking Sherlock from head to toe, just in case he was hurt. “I just walked. I didn’t take anything.”

John looked hurt and even a touch offended. “I didn’t think you had,” he protested. John opened his mouth to say something more, but it was clear to Sherlock that he changed his mind and said something else entirely, “You missed your last round of meds. They need to be taken with food.” _Ah. Doctor mode. Very well then_.

Sherlock allowed himself to be herded towards the kitchen table. John reheated his meal and presented him with his small cup of pills. Sherlock swallowed them down and chased it all with a sip of tea. He dutifully ate the meal John had made for him, appreciating that John had made the sandwich exactly the way he enjoyed and that the soup was freshly made and was filled with savoury goodness. When he was done he rose to leave but John stopped him, “Sherlock. I need to say something.” Sherlock paused, but then sat himself down again and looked up at John. The doctor seemed nervous, and even a little upset, but also determined. “I’ve said something awful out of anger and I can’t take it back. It’s out there, and I can’t change it, no matter how hard I wish that I could. All I want to say is this; maybe you are a freak, lots of people say it, mostly to be rude, but also because they’re a little right. You’re an aberration. You’re nothing like the rest of us, you’re unique, one of a kind.” John hesitated, “I know that all sounds terrible but consider this, you’re like the next stage of human evolution. You’re a freak because you’re so smart and so capable, and just so much _more_ than the rest of us that you stand out no matter what. You’ll never fit in, and you’ll never be just a regular bloke like I am, but that’s not a bad thing. You’re something people should aspire to be, someone other people should hope their children are like. I’m so sorry I used _that word_ in anger, but all I can do now is maybe change the way you feel about it when people say it again. I’ve always been proud to be your friend…to have been your friend, and I recognize that I may never get that privilege again and that it’s my own fault. I just think…well, you should own the label that people keep putting on you. You _are_ a freak, but that only means you can’t be judged on the same scale as anyone else, you’re so much more than we can be.”

John seemed to run out of words and stood there, slightly deflated, and sorrowful looking. He didn’t wait for Sherlock to respond, instead, he marched himself away, and took himself upstairs to his bedroom. Sherlock heard John shut his door softly but firmly and heard the creak of the bedsprings as John sat down but then nothing.  Sherlock went to the sofa and sat on it. He looked around the flat. John’s chair had a paperback open on the armrest, the spine a little broken from numerous re-reads. There was a neat pile of mail on the mantle next to the skull. John had been paying the bills and leaving the records where Sherlock could see them if he’d bothered to look. He left them there. John was still using his RAMC mug, even though the lip was chipped from where Sherlock had once dropped it in the sink. John’s coat was hanging next to Sherlock’s. His shoes were neatly set beneath them. Sherlock recalled the loaf of bread, and the container of milk in the fridge, and the small white plastic container that had all of Sherlock’s medications in it, and the fact that their old med kit was back under the sink in the loo where it always used to be. 221 B Baker Street felt like home again and it was because John was here.

Suddenly, he knew what the next step was, so he took it. Sherlock went up to John’s room. Without knocking, Sherlock pushed open the door and walked in. John was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head hanging, dejection radiating from his small body. “Move back in properly.” Sherlock said baldly, “I don’t forgive you but…” he floundered, “Just…get your things.” Harry had a spare handful of boxes of whatever John had left, mostly old books and other items of sentimental but not fiscal value.

He went back downstairs and went to his room. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d just told John to do this but somehow, he knew he’d made the correct choice. Sherlock hadn’t forgiven John, and wouldn’t forget what had happened, but the doctor’s words at the dinner table had had a certain impact that he couldn’t define yet. He heard John descending from his room and leaving the flat. Perhaps he’d be back, perhaps he’d stay away. Sherlock closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep. It was impossible to keep thinking and feeling at the same time.

He woke very early the next morning. The flat was cool but not cold, and with a strange sense of satisfaction, Sherlock saw John’s spare shoes where they belonged, and the small sturdy coat he wore hanging right beside Sherlock’s long wool one. John _had_ gone out last night, but he was just as certainly _properly_ back again. When Sherlock entered the kitchen, he noticed an immediate difference. For one, there were actual cooking utensils in the drawer, and the cupboard was once again stocked with plates and bowls of various sizes. Sherlock felt a lump in his throat as he recognized the collection of familiar patterns. John didn’t own a single matching piece. He’d bought everything at second-hand stores one item at a time, getting whatever was cheap or eye-catching. Sherlock had to swallow hard as he took down a newly re-shelved mug. It had butterflies splashed around the rim, and there was a crack in the handle. He nearly kissed it but restrained himself, brewing a cup of tea to drink instead.

He was just finishing when John finally came down. The doctor went through his morning medical routine with Sherlock, scheduling an appointment with another doctor to discuss further treatments and options. Sherlock was over the worst of it but that was the comparatively easy part, _keeping_ himself clean was the real struggle, and John had already promised to help as much as was required. A different doctor was necessary for perspective and clarity when making treatment choices. The day went forward as so many others had, but the atmosphere wasn’t as bleak as it had been. It was still awkward because neither man had any idea how to keep moving forward with their friendship repairs. Learning to live in each other’s space again was enough of a challenge.

Sherlock kept an ear out for John now. Before their falling out, Sherlock had been able to mute John’s presence by remaining in his mind palace. Now he was acutely aware of everything the doctor did during the day, committing John’s routines and preferences to memory despite having already done so, following the soldier mentally, and finding strange comfort in the return of their old routines. Regardless of it, everything seemed new again, and he was gun-shy now. The awkwardness lingered.

John eventually got work at a different clinic, though his professional reputation had taken a serious hit due to the downward spiral into alcoholism that he’d so recently publicly undertaken. He was back in therapy as well, a mandatory requirement necessary to change the minds of potential employers regarding the doctor’s ability to deal with stress. It took some time before HR was grudgingly willing to admit that John was more than capable as a doctor and well-suited to dealing with the more traumatic cases that came in, leaving the routine check-ups and procedures to less experienced personnel, but he was on notice. His continued employment depended on his reliability, the first bit of trouble, and John would be out once more.

Sherlock didn’t exactly return to doing the _Work_ , but he did get John to send Donovan tips and hints on occasion, nudging her along as unobtrusively as he could since she was the only one who had come forward and, in any way, tried to help or explain herself. Private cases began to present themselves. After additional weeks of hesitance, Sherlock decided that the _Work_ wasn’t at fault for what had happened and that the puzzles were as intriguing as ever. The only thing holding him back was John. He wasn’t sure he was willing to investigate solo as he once so carelessly had done. Years of experience had taught him that it was preferable to have someone guard your back, and no matter what else happened between them, there was no one he trusted his life with more than John Watson. The decision was made easier one night over dinner when, on his own, John asked Sherlock to take the latest client who had begged them for help. “I can’t skive off from work the way I used to, but I’m still very willing to help, that is, if you’d like my help.”

Sherlock looked at John’s face and focused on his eyes. There was a hopeful sincerity there and he’d acquiesced. Sherlock contacted their new client and informed them that he was taking their case, but only under the understanding and acceptance that he was only available when John was. The clients were so grateful that no argument was presented. For the first time ever, Sherlock conditionally worked on a case outside of John’s employed hours. Thankfully John was only on part-time, so there were several days in a row that they could work on other things during.

Now they were too busy to feel awkward. Often, they were home only long enough to have a quick wash and change of clothes, grabbing a hastily assembled sandwich on the way out the door. When they came home to shower before catching some much-needed sleep, Sherlock couldn’t help but notice everything John did. The breach between them hadn’t entirely healed yet, but that didn’t stop Sherlock from remembering all the intimate things about John that he knew. Showers now reminded Sherlock that the soldier had a very healthy sexual appetite, one that he sated with his hand on a regular, and even frequent basis. For a man in his mid-forties, John’s libido hadn’t cooled much. He was discreet, but it wasn’t difficult to hear his moans and grunts through the paper-thin walls, especially if you were just outside the door. When John got himself off in his bedroom, all Sherlock had to do was go to his and listen.

It became his new obsession. Listening to John wank was something that he was vaguely aware was more than a bit creepy and likely very wrong as well, but he didn’t even think about it. John had told him to _own_ his own unusual nature, so he was. He was gathering data and John had no one but himself to blame. Sherlock’s transport walked itself over to the door, his ear pressed to the hollow wood, straining to hear the water splashing off Johns quick moving hand, the wet slapping sound growing more frantic whenever John approached his apex.

Sherlock refused to listen to the voices in his head that told him it was not _good_. Listening to John was addictive, and he was a junkie. After a while, simply listening wasn’t enough. Cupping his hand over his swelling manhood, Sherlock attempted to calm himself. That worked for a few days, but soon he was slipping his hand down his pants and rubbing himself, just a bit. He enjoyed the gentle plumping of his penis but didn’t try to take it further than that. He hadn’t _completely_ lost control of his transport!

A fortnight later, it escalated. They’d solved three cases in that time, moving seamlessly from one engagement to another, always working around John’s commitments with care. It made the work go slower but it was a low enough price to pay for having John back again. They came back late one night, silent but triumphant. John went straight into the shower, and soon enough, Sherlock was right outside, ear pressed to the wood, his hand already moving. He kept pace with John and was surprised to find that he was panting softly as John came. He ghosted himself to his bedroom, stifling his noises into a pillow as he fucked his fist roughly, and came in his own hand while he thought of John wet and naked. Initially, Sherlock was shocked at the intensity of pleasure he’d experienced, then he was upset that he’d given into his primal urges. When it kept happening, Sherlock grew resigned to his body’s betrayal and began to just enjoy the orgasms without judging himself.

He grew bolder. Time after time he let himself grown closer and closer to orgasm, stroking himself as silently as he could, muffling his panting breaths with his free hand, and hoping that the noise of the shower obscured any soft grunts he couldn’t stifle. He was learning John’s rhythms and paces and was beginning to understand when the soldier wanted to drag things out or when he just wanted to get off as fast as possible. Sherlock learned to play with his bollocks, to finger himself a bit when he felt like a bit more stimulation and learned the many different ways he could touch himself for pleasure.

The first time he’d touched his anus out of curiosity was revelatory. He’d known theoretically that a great deal of pleasure could be derived from that entire region regardless of gender but he’d never followed through with tests to verify. He corrected that error, working nightly to learn how to tease himself open. Sherlock invested in a variety of personal lubricants, charting his reactions to different thicknesses and bases, bringing himself off at least once a day, not including the times where John showered and Sherlock listened secretly.

One night, John was particularly loud, and a series of softly grunted noises aroused Sherlock so intensely that he found himself biting his forearm as he made a mess on the insides of his pyjama bottoms. He wasn’t wearing pants so when come escaped his fingers it dripped then ran down his thigh. It took all his self-control to keep silent as he made his way to his bedroom, mopping up the mess on his skin with the now soiled leg of his jimjams. John’s sounds had been so arousing. Sherlock startled himself with a second almost immediately aching erection. He stroked himself with his own mess before coming a second time, now spilling his spunk onto the lap of his abused pyjamas. Sherlock had to strip to clean up properly but he managed, falling asleep naked directly after.

It was only a matter of time before a case took them outside of London. A series of thefts throughout a small collection of villages was causing a great deal of financial as well as community damage. Suspects were everywhere and for days, John and Sherlock went from town to town collecting evidence and interviewing witnesses. John called off work for the immediate future, and for two weeks, they did nothing else but move from hotel to hotel. It was gruelling as well as expensive, and eventually, John stopped booking separate rooms and began booking just one. In such small villages, there wasn’t often a lot of choices and by day thirteen, John was compelled to settle for a single room with one double bed. The next closest available room was a fifty-minute drive away in the rain, and both men were exhausted, “I don’t care, Sherlock. We’ve got our pyjamas, I’m tired as hell, the room comes with a hot dinner ready to eat and endless hot water in the shower. I’m starving. I’m cold. We’ll take it.”

They did. Sherlock found himself as ravenous as John, both men wolfing down their large gravy-soaked portions of slow roast beef, jacket potatoes, and a huge portion of garden-fresh salad. A bowl of ice-cream topped fruit completed their very satisfying meal, and then it was time for showers and bed. Sherlock went first, perfunctorily scrubbing himself from head to toe before towelling off, brushing his teeth, and got into his pyjamas. He was already in bed with his eyes closed before John closed the bathroom door behind him to get his own shower. Sherlock rolled out from the blankets and ghosted over. Once again, he pressed his ear to the door and listened. John washed as quickly as Sherlock had but after he was done, Sherlock heard the tell-tale sigh that announced John’s shower wank.

Pavlovian saliva filled Sherlock’s mouth as he imagined how John was touching himself. Sherlock’s erection rose stiff and eager only moments later and without hesitation, Sherlock pushed his hands down his pants and gripped himself. To his complete surprise, he got some whispered dialogue along with his sneaking. “Yeah, gorgeous, open your mouth, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stood still, shocked. _Had John just spoken his name?_ He listened intently and heard the wet slap of John’s fist on his cock, “How am I going to get through tonight without fucking that pretty mouth? God, I’ve wanted your lips on my cock for years.” John was trying to stay quiet beneath the spray and obviously didn’t realise that his nosey flatmate could hear him clearly. Sherlock wondered if John could hear how hard he was stroking himself, and it made a surge of exhilaration rush through him. John wanted him... _sexually._

“Are you a freak in bed, too?” A long groan was clearly audible and abruptly cut off as John stifled his own cry, “Yeah, I bet you are. God, that arse, so fucking gorgeous. I hope you rub it on me tonight.” John panted for a minute before rumbling out another naughty whisper, “What would it be like, if you had me? Sherlock.” John moaned again, “I’d want to, with you. Put your cock in me, I’ll make myself ready for you right now, yes.” John’s panting breaths were broken, “Yeah, fuck my arse, Sherlock. Harder.” Dual wet sounds were audible. _John was stroking his cock but what else was he doing?_ Sherlock’s eyes widened as he realized that John was fingering himself, hard. _He was fantasising about Sherlock fucking him anally!_

Sherlock nearly fell to his knees, his unexpected orgasm taking all his strength with it as he heard John cry out his own pleasure, clearly thinking that the water and the bathroom fan would hide his noises. They didn’t. Sherlock managed to wobble his way back to his feet, grabbed some tissues to clean up his mess, and fell onto his half of the bed. He’d only just managed to get his breathing under control when the bathroom door opened, “Asleep already?” John’s voice was fond, “Silly bastard.” John’s words were affectionate, sated and content, “I knew you were tired.”

John climbed into bed, and instantly Sherlock felt warm and safe. Pretending, he rolled over as if hard asleep and crowded John. Instead of pushing him away, John opened his arms, allowing the detective to curl up tight against his side, his head pillowed on John’s shoulder. “Yeah, I like that.” Sherlock felt a kiss being pressed to his forehead, “This is all I want, Sherlock,” John continued to whisper, believing that Sherlock was asleep, “I just want to make you feel good, to look after you. You’re the best part of me, and I’ll never forgive myself for hurting you. One day, I’m going to wait until you’re awake to say this but,” another kiss was pressed between Sherlock’s closed eyes, “I love you, you nutter. I’m going to spend all my days showing you. All I want out of life is to make you happy.”

It took all of Sherlock’s acting skills to remain limp and pliant long enough for John to fall deep into slumber. His mind was swimming at John’s stunning revelation. Now he was glad he had shammed sleep, there was no way he could have dealt with such a declaration whilst needing to remain conscious. He felt dizzy and needed time to process the broad scope of thoughts and feelings he was simultaneously experiencing right then. Recalling John’s wish, Sherlock eventually turned over, encouraging John to spoon up behind him, making sure to wriggle back so that his bottom was firmly placed over John’s very substantial bulge. It was oddly calming, a promise for something they both wanted that would still be there later. Without hesitation, John wrapped his arm about Sherlock’s torso and continued holding him as if he’d spent every night of his life doing so.

Sherlock relaxed, all his anxiety and confusion gone in an instant. _What was there to worry about? John loved him. He loved John. They both knew what they were getting in to._ Sherlock sighed sleepily and momentarily began to re-question everything he was doing. _Was it right to want more from John, despite those very special words he’d spoken? Was his apology and explanation enough? Did the desires of their flesh equate his dignity when it came to his desire for respect from the person who was dearest to him?_ Confused once more but filled with well-whetted hunger, Sherlock managed to let himself sleep.

He awoke hot hours later. His back was covered in sweat but he didn’t make a twitch of effort to move away because along with the heat was John’s cock. It was thick, full, and wedged right between Sherlock’s welcoming buttocks. Sherlock closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation, a small smile curving his lips. He lay there in John’s arms and dreamed about being penetrated by it, wondering how different it would feel than his own fingers if it would hurt if John just pushed it in, or if they might have the patience to open Sherlock slowly. He wanted both. He wanted the tearing pain of entry to permanently embed itself in his mind palace as _A Significant Event To Remember_. Sherlock wanted to be shamelessly on his hands and knees, arse in the air as John Watson took him from behind.

John loved him.

Now Sherlock recalled everything and his smile grew bigger. John loved him and he loved John, even if John didn’t know that yet. Sherlock decided how he wanted to let him find out. He moved carefully, tugging down his pyjama bottoms, exposing his flesh. John was still deeply asleep so Sherlock momentarily considered the ethics of his next step before mentally shrugging and deciding that John would likely explain to him later if what he’d done was good or _bad_. Sherlock was thankful for the length of his arms and his overall flexibility when he managed to reach behind and pull John’s pyjama bottoms down just enough to free his long penis. Sherlock shivered as the heat of it was amplified by skin-to-skin contact. Retracting his hand, he sucked on three fingers, soaking them in saliva before reaching back to touch himself. With determination, Sherlock pressed his fingers inside himself. It stung at first, but the thought of what he was about to do made him reckless. Spitting on his fingers a second time, Sherlock made himself as wet and loose as possible. A third round of saliva was gingerly rubbed over John’s cockhead before Sherlock carefully placed the now slick head of it against his own anus and pushed back.

It hurt. It hurt a great deal but not an insurmountable degree. In fact, Sherlock rather liked it. John’s cock was fatter than Sherlock’s narrow fingers and he was so very hard. Sherlock managed to insert nearly a third of it before John finally moaned and rocked sleepily forward. Sherlock exhaled raggedly at the push and allowed John to nudge himself deeper, not minding the sliding sting of it as his cock dragged against the sensitive tissues within. This went on for a good minute before all movement stopped and John’s body pulled back, but only a fraction of an inch, “Sherlock?”

“Keep going, John, I like it.” Sherlock was very aroused. His penis had flagged momentarily, but the risque activity had kept him aroused, “You were erect, and I want this from you. I’m clean, you’re clean, give it to me.”

John didn’t move for several seconds and for a moment, Sherlock thought that this might be the end of everything. Instead, he heard the distinctive sound of John spitting into his own hand and felt the doctor smear it around his shaft before pushing in again, “I can’t believe you did this, that you want this! I’m going to fuck you so hard.”

“Yes, John, split me open.” Sherlock would never say such things to anyone but it seemed like exactly the right thing to say to John, who didn’t argue. “Make me come.” It didn’t feel awkward at all saying so, not when he meant it so sincerely.

“Sherlock,” John groaned his name out but also pushed deeper, “I must be dreaming.”

“Do you dream about this?” John’s cock was going to tear him except it didn’t. It slid deeper and deeper, pushing him wide open, invading him in a way no one had ever attempted before. Sherlock welcomed it. He felt full, taken, wanted, desired, and needed. It was bliss that his transport had been designed to appreciate, and appreciate it he did.

“Every night,” confessed John, gripping Sherlock’s hips, shifting their bodies so that he was laying on Sherlock’s back, “You’re so gorgeous, so beautiful, so amazing.” John pulled back, applied a bit more spit, and thrust slowly inward, “I’ve never felt someone so tight, it’s perfect.”

John was pressing carefully, stopping when Sherlock gasped sharply, “Prostate.”

“Good to know,” John kissed the back of Sherlock’s neck, “This is not how I imagined things,” John sank himself deep each time he pulled out, “I imagined a lot. I never thought you’d allow me.”

“You’re the only one I’d ever permit,” Sherlock confessed back, his body arching and stretching. “Please, John, make me come. I want you to come in me. I want you to be mine. I want…”

“Yes, Sherlock, yes, that. I’ll give you that. Let me.” John’s voice was broken and thick with emotion, “I need it. I need you. You…” John lost his words when Sherlock accidentally contracted around him, his body spasming slightly as the unfamiliar pleasure grew, “Oh god!” Suddenly, John grasped Sherlock’s torso and twisted them around. Now Sherlock was sitting on John’s cock, his knees on the bed, John’s hips beneath him, “Ride me.”

Sherlock began slowly. He shifted and rocked until he found a rhythm that felt delicious. Moaning softly he allowed his body to grind and press, teasing himself internally. It was utterly delightful but he didn’t like that he couldn’t see John’s face. Carefully, Sherlock pulled himself off, regretting the empty feeling he experienced when John’s penis left his body, but still turning himself around with relative grace until he was once again straddling his sandy-haired lover.

It was worth it. John’s face was even more expressive than usual. Sherlock reached behind himself to hold John’s cock to slick it once more with a generous amount of saliva, place it at the most comfortable angle and sat back down. “We have lube,” panted John but Sherlock shook his head. He wanted to feel this for days, and no artificial product was going to deny him that. Sherlock let his head fall back as his hips began to move. He didn’t try anything fancy, he didn’t know how not yet. He rocked and rocked, sliding up and down a bit, gradually moving with greater assurance until he was moving fast and hard.

John spread his legs a bit and placed his feet flat on the mattress, bucking his hips upward sharp and firm, causing Sherlock to cry out as a shockwave of pleasure shot through him. John took control then, fucking himself up into Sherlock’s body, holding him at exactly the right angle to stimulate him the most. It was enough to cause Sherlock to white out for several seconds, too overwhelmed with growing pleasure to have any rational thoughts in his head. He’d never imagined being able to feel such things. His orgasms had always been nice, but not earthshaking, and now, John was fucking him so well that Sherlock was a bit afraid of coming in case he fainted from the intensity.

John fumbled before finding Sherlock’s cock and fisting it, “John!” It was too much. The tight feeling he was experiencing was now body wide and the stimulation John was providing was almost more than Sherlock could deal with. “Yes.” John was thrusting fast and steady now, not trying to stimulate Sherlock more, but then, he didn’t need to. Sherlock felt his entire body tighten, squeezing John tighter than ever. Sherlock heard John groan and felt his penis begin to contract. The first bloom of warmth inside him was all he needed to complete his own journey.

Sherlock learned that his own orgasms had indeed been weak and powerless. He cried out without restraint once more as explosive shocks of absolute delight radiated everywhere, his cock jerking on its own as he throbbed out his essence into John’s palm. His thighs shook. His hands reflexively clenched into fists. He seemed to be moaning loudly as well but blood was rushing so hard through his veins that he was deaf from it. Sherlock felt John shuddering beneath him before the doctor pulled out slowly, his breathing ragged and deep. Sherlock was still gasping for air when John pulled him forward and kissed him passionately, “Sherlock.”

They kissed for a long time. Eventually, John pulled away enough to ask, “Why?”

Sherlock blinked at him for a minute before answering, “I heard you say that you love me. I needed you to know that I feel the same about you. I’ve never had sex before, and you, or at least your body, wanted it with me, even though you were asleep. Circumstances couldn’t be better. We’re in a private room away from anyone who might bother us, we’re both in extremely good health, and frankly, it’s about time we stopped messing about and waiting for some magically better moment to get on with our relationship.”

John seemed to be stunned into silence. “Relationship?” John was the one blinking now, “Wait, you love me?”

“Obviously, John!” Sherlock glared at his lover, “Who else would I love? Who else has the power to hurt me so easily except for you, John? Everyone saw how you can break me with a single word. No other being in existence can claim that. No one in my entire life has mattered more to me than you.”

John’s eyes were becoming red and tear-filled as his face twisted in a combination of happiness and misery, “Sherlock,” he began. He interrupted himself with a kiss, “I _do_ love you but I’m never forgiving myself for putting you through hell.”

“I did to same to you, John, and so much worse,” Sherlock pointed out gently. “I made you grieve for me for two entire years. I didn’t know how I felt about you, but I missed you terribly every moment. When I got back...well...Mary...there was never a time for us, and after a while, I just assumed there never would be.”

John left the bed after kissing Sherlock one more time. He came back a minute later with hot damp flannels. He used them to clean Sherlock off front and back before going back to the washroom to clean himself. As soon as he was done, both Sherlock and John fixed their pyjamas and snuggled together under the blankets, both men lost in thought. “I didn’t expect sex.” John stated, his arms loosely holding Sherlock to him, “That was a bit of a surprise.”

“Technically assault, too, since I in no way established consent beforehand.” Sherlock felt ashamed of himself, but distantly. His body was still hazy with contentment.

“Technically.” John yawned, “I’ll let you off with a warning. Wake me next time. I mean, if we’re going to add fucking to our regular activities, I’d like to participate throughout, not that I minded waking up and finding my cock inside the hottest person I’ve ever known.”

Sherlock felt his face heat with a blush at the coarseness of John’s words but also with more than a hint of arousal. “Really, John,” he scoffed.

“Don’t be like that with yourself, Sherlock.” John kissed Sherlock’s forehead, “You deserve to know how beautiful you are, how clever you are, how amazing you are. Not enough people tell you, but from now on, I will.” John made sure Sherlock could see him clearly, “I love you. I’m going to spend the rest of my life letting you feel that. You’ll never have to doubt me, not about anything. I am one hundred percent devoted to making you happy.”

Sherlock looked at John for a long time, thinking over all the many moments between them that had been so lonely and miserable because of their misperceptions and circumstances, “You promise, John? I’m going to want that forever, and I am not being hyperbolic.”

John was just as serious as Sherlock, “I’m not expecting anything to be easy. I know you like doing things your own way and I would never want to change you but I want to be a part of your life in any way you’ll let me. I want to look after you, help you, just...I just want to be with you. I love you so much, Sherlock, and forever sounds just about right.”

Sherlock smiled. His heart felt good, and his body did too, even the mild sting of his behind was merely a reminder of the huge step forward they’d just taken together. “Marry me, John.”

“Yeah, alright.” John was flushed now, his eyes sparkling with happiness.

“Just like that, a yes?”

“Just like that.” John kissed Sherlock, “Why mess about? We’ve felt so much for so long, and hid it from one another. Why waste time waiting, and for what? I want everyone in the world to know that I’m yours.”

Sherlock felt like his body had left the mortal realm, he was so filled with contentment and pure joy. John loved him. John was going to stay with him forever. John had agreed to marry him.”

“Then the game is on, Watson.”

“Indeed, Holmes, it is indeed.” With a kiss to seal the deal, the pair of them made their way back to 221 B Baker Street the moment their case was solved and began to demonstrate their ardour for one another. Downstairs, Mrs Hudson discreetly turned up her radio to muffle the regular thumping sounds coming from upstairs. Smiling, she began to bake a batch of fruit-filled muffins. Her boys would need energy, and a sweet treat would be a good way to preface a request that they purchase a sturdier and much more silent bed-frame. Humming under her breath, Mrs Hudson turned her radio up even more as the new lovers began to enthusiastically increase their efforts. It was lovely, and she had never been so happy for them.

  
****


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